


Pink, Purple and Blue

by felentae



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Aliens, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Space, Comedy, Jongdae is really out of touch with alien cultural and racial differences, M/M, Slice of Life, Tentacles, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 15:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11293299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felentae/pseuds/felentae
Summary: Jongdae hates his job at Interstellar Customs, but Monday is his favorite day of the week because he gets to see the cute window cleaner suctioning his way up the office windows.Or, alternatively, just a glimpse of what a work week looks like for Jongdae.





	Pink, Purple and Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [daisukis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daisukis/) that helped me beta-ing this last minute.

 

Monday is the worst day of the week. Everyone hates Mondays.

Everyone... except Jongdae. Because, on Mondays, the office windows get cleaned.

 

 

Interstellar Customs has the prettiest building that can be seen from space: a huge oval dome divided longitudinally; half made of white concrete, half made of glass panes. It really looks pretty from the outside (and, particularly, from space), but the architects didn't take into account how much effort would be needed to keep it immaculate, especially on the surface of New Mars (its discoverers weren't too original when they named the planet, to be honest), where sandstorms constantly try to cover it in rusty red.

Like every Monday at early hours, the lobby is almost in complete darkness as Jongdae clocks in and gets to his desk behind the counter. The idea behind the dome was smart: with so much natural sunlight, they wouldn't need artificial lighting. No one thought about installing lights just in case. Just like they didn't think about sandstorms, but whatever. Their section supervisor was the only one that did some actual thinking about potential lawsuits from employees tripping in the darkness and getting hurt, so at least they each have a personal flashlight courtesy of the taxpayers' pockets. Very happy taxpayers, to be fair, because legal issues at interstellar facilities are always a bureaucratic hell that no one wants to pay for.

But first thing in the morning, right after all the computers start automatically at the exact second the clock marks 8:00 (Interstellar Time), the window cleaners get to work too. And that's Jongdae's favorite moment of the week, because he gets to spend those few minutes before beings start arriving to his desk looking up at a very particular window cleaner with a very distinct feature. It doesn't have anything to do with the fact that he's from some kind of octopus-human hybrid species with six pinkish purple tentacles – genetic combining technologies are getting a bit too good, lately. That's actually pretty normal for what Jongdae sees daily at work. What catches Jongdae's attention is his face: his round cheeks, his cute little nose, and, particularly, his huge almond eyes.

The lobby starts to light up as the cleaners above his head remove the thick layer of desert sand. In a planet like this, where there's no clouds, that means direct and bright sunlight. The frequent cleaning of the building lets the two suns' light pierce through the glass panes and reflect on the white walls. And the white floor. And the white counters. And the white absolutely everything in that lobby, because even the giant wall clock is spotless white with light gray numbers (and their attached symbols in other galactic numeric systems). It makes the place look like one of those asylums in ancient movies from the technological awakening era on Earth and, seriously, what the hell were the decorators thinking when they designed this place?

But Jongdae's train of thoughts gets derailed fast because there he is, appearing through one of the first patches of clear glass panes, with the suckers of his tentacles holding him strongly against the window and his unmistakable plaid skirt not covering his underwear at all. It's weird how Jongdae is used to seeing the window cleaner's strange briefs with six holes for each of his six tentacles (they really manufacture anything these days) while he's never managed to see his face properly, always kind of blurry through the glass, covered in rusty sand and too far up in the sky. But he still manages to catch his smile as the guy jokes with (probably) another cleaner, and it's the cutest smile Jongdae's ever seen. And he's seen a lot, but none like this one. And certainly not like the one he sees when the octopus hybrid looks down and catches Jongdae staring up at him, locking eyes for a–

“Morning.”

A raspy voice brings him back to floor level, literally. At the other side of the counter stands a Shekshian, one of those weird reptile-looking beings that everyone takes as dangerous and vicious because of their appearance but are actually the calmest herbivores in the system.

He (or she? Jongdae still has problems with this species) hands him a piece of paper over his desk with a code from the delivery system. A code to the heavy packages section, to be exact. _Fucking great_. What he wanted the most right now was to start the week fighting his coworkers for the scant wheeled carts that they have available to move heavy weights around the building.

Definitely, Monday is the worst day of the week.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Okay, Tuesday is the worst day of the week – no room for debate. There are still four days left until the weekend and everyone's already tired and grumpy from the day before, so they look and behave like shit. Not the best case scenario when you deal with people for six hours straight. Why did he choose this job?

Oh, _right_.

 

 

Ever since he can remember, Jongdae always wanted to explore the universe. As a kid, he used to lose hours of sleep just looking out his window and watching the stars, the pink and violet colored nebulae, the quick glints of light reflected on spaceships and satellites just passing through the sky, the _endless possibilities_ in all the vastness of space. So he tried his best to make his dream come true – oh, he tried. He got top marks at school so he could choose any pilot academy he wanted. He did his best at sports, getting ready for the strict physical demands of space travel – swimming, gymnastics, but also soccer and volleyball, because team activities always looked good on school applications. He joined summer camp for teenage future pilots in high school. _He discovered that he suffered from vertigo_.

And so his journey ended. Getting a job in a spaceship was not an option anymore – not even as cabin crew. His whole childhood dream shattered into a million pieces and left him wondering what he was supposed to do from that point on. His marks dropped, he left his sports clubs, he stopped looking up at the stars every night before going to bed.

Somewhere along the way, a teacher convinced him that Customs would be fun. He was probably just trying to cheer him up and get him back on track, but sixteen-year-old Jongdae took it to heart and started looking into it. The Interstellar Union website looked _really good_ , with all those cool graphics, persuasive messages to join and interesting promises of fun and adventure and thrilling experiences in distant planets. Getting to know so many different species. Dealing with interesting cargo from across the universe. Learning alien languages. Helping the authorities stop illegal trafficking.

Seventeen-year-old Jongdae passed the entrance exam for the Public Service Academy with flying marks and became a bit of a legend as the youngest student in the entire history of the school. Not that big of an accomplishment, to be honest – most seventeen-year-olds didn't bother with government jobs and went after college degrees or chose more exciting careers.

Anyway, being used to long study sessions since he was a little kid proved useful. Besides the more practical stuff (multicultural manners across species, handling databases and data protection), the basic courses in ethics and the (awfully long) history of the Interstellar Union, he was also required to learn at least 5 of the 20 recognized official languages. And as the youngest in his year, he was always the last to choose classes (Jongdae never understood this policy but "older people need to graduate faster", they would reason, and he didn't really have a say on it) and got stuck with the hardest languages ever known to any sentient being. So he basically devoted five years of his sweet youth to perfect his pronunciation of guttural consonants in the ancient tongue of K'lödc-kt, the so-important movement of his eyeballs that Lynctians made to accompany certain sounds, the ribbon twirls in the almost dance-like language of Ethrireo (thanks, high school gymnastics) and the beautiful (but hard as fuck) colored ink traces that Mfsei's inhabitants used to communicate and there was literally no other way to learn than keep drawing until your hand could replicate the "words" out of muscle memory. At least English (or Common Earthling, according to the Union) made the 5th language on that list.

Jongdae pulled through all of it stoically, knowing that at the end of the line he would get, at least, a permanent job. And all those exciting adventures that the Union advertised! But reality usually hits the hardest when you're not expecting a second blow, and his little, humble, down-to-earth second dream job turned out to be the most tedious thing he's ever done in his entire life. Yes, worse than drawing the same colored curved line for fucking _weeks_. Because okay, it pays well and his schedule leaves him with a lot of free time, but does that really make up for the absolute tedium that is a monotonous office job sitting for 6 hours straight in front of a computer and smiling to dozens of ill-mannered beings? He doesn't even get to experience the "fun" part about detecting illegal items – that is done by other employees that actually made the effort of getting a Science Degree before looking for a job. The only thing he can do is fantasize, look at the pictures of exotic animals that his coworkers send to the group chat and listen to their descriptions of that forbidden fruit they had the chance to taste before the special units arrived to confiscate the package. He just stays behind the counter, types ID info from random beings into his computer and then looks for their packages and gives them out with the proper fee.

 

 

Clock out time finally arrives without a warning and his computer locks down automatically, leaving him mid-transaction with a customer that certainly does not look like they'll enjoy this piece of information. _Great_. Now he needs to find his supervisor to override the system and finish the delivery process before he can finally go home.

Interstellar Customs. It will be fun, they said. You'll meet a lot of people, they said. Fucking _great_.

 

  

* * *

 

 

Wednesday is _definitely_ the second worst day of the week. You're still in the middle of the week but you're already tired as fuck, and the weekend looks so far away you want to purposely smash your head against the wall so you get a trip to the hospital and a sick leave.

But Jongdae is kind of scared of brain contusions (why would that be) and also kind of scared of getting a _permanent_ leave for inappropriate behavior at the workplace, so he just plops down on his chair and lets out the longest sigh, getting weird (but knowing) looks from the other workers at the delivery counter. It's a good thing that today looks like a slow day.

 

 

Jongdae's desk is the only one with a potted plant. For some reason he can't come to understand, the Interstellar Union always chose barren planets for their main installations in each system. And, when you have to live on them all year round, it's fucking depressing. That tiny aloe vera plant he imported from Earth is the only non-sentient being in, probably, the whole planet. Exoplanetary fauna and flora isn't generally allowed in public buildings but, okay, working at Customs does have _some_ perks.

Also, maybe that offhanded comment about how the poor plant was dying at home for lack of sunlight and how he used it to heal scars had something to do with it. His supervisor had, for a while now, this weird tendency to drop by his desk and make small talk while not-so-covertly examining his hands and face – the only body parts allowed to be uncovered by the Union's dress code. The way he always asks how the plant is doing now that it has plenty of sunlight is a bit strange too. Anyway, Wednesdays are watering days, and so Jongdae does, carefully dropping the tiniest amount of liquid on its soil, because all beings in the known universe need to be hydrated, sentient or not.

 

 

It is indeed a slow day, today, but that doesn't mean that they don't get some customers. And as soon as he fulfills his duty towards his vegetative pal, there he is: Jongdae's only reason to not hate his job _completely_ , the cute half-octopus window cleaner, standing at the other side of the counter. Or whatever they call it when someone with a bunch of tentacles as legs is standing.

It's the first time he sees the octopus guy up close, Jongdae realizes. The first time he gets to see the way his white work t-shirt clings to his biceps, how it hugs his chest in all its glory as he shifts and searches through his pockets. God bless the ban on robotic workers in public buildings. And it's the first time he notices that his blue tartan skirt actually looks like one of those kilts men wore somewhere in the Northern regions of Ancient Earth, according to his elementary school history books, with the characteristic checkered pattern and meticulous folds that now fall from his narrow waist and sway over the thicker section of his purple-pink tentacles.

He should probably stop calling him "the octopus guy" in his mind though, that's probably like _really_ offensive.

So he takes the ID card that the guy (not “the octopus guy”) already placed on the counter desk, and scans it, and looks at the information appearing in the screen. All very professional.

_Minseok_. His octopussy crush is called _Minseok_. That's not even a word. “Octopussy,” that is. Who cares.

Jongdae scrolls down to look at the package information, as he should be doing per his job requirements. He also has to fight the tiny smile that threatens to creep onto his face – he finally knows the guy's name. _Minseok's_ name. Well, there goes that stupid smile. Not so professional anymore.

“I have good news and bad news for you,” Jongdae says, and then thinks that he didn't even check the _'spoken languages'_ box and just assumed that Minseok would speak English, and that's like the second item in his job's banned behaviors list. The first one is something against flirting in the workplace. _Damn_ , he's fucked.

“What's the bad news?”

So he does speak English. That was a close one. “Your package has been misplaced, you can't retrieve it today.”

“Oh.”

Minseok makes the cutest pout when he looks disappointed. Jongdae saves that thought for later.

“So the good news?” he asks.

“Right. The system already detected the issue and it's currently on a cargo ship that is supposed to arrive... tomorrow early morning. So you can come fetch it tomorrow at any time.” Jongdae tries his best to add a professional, absolutely not flirty smile to emphasize the message. He barely succeeds.

Minseok sighs, apparently mildly annoyed. “Nice. I'll have to leave work early just because I have to personally come and take care of my package. I can already hear my boss saying that I won't get paid because why would I get paid for work I'm not doing.”

“I'd gladly take care of your package for you,” Jongdae mutters to himself as he gives the ID card back. _Oh shit_. Did he just say that out loud? CREEPY.

Minseok laughs. Luckily. He didn't get the second meaning. Half-octopus people probably don't have anything similar to human _packages_ so to speak. Or maybe he doesn't care. The important thing is that he's _laughing_ , not calling security on him.

“On second thought, interacting with you without a window pane in between us is not so bad. You're funny.”

“But we've never _interacted_ before,” Jongdae retorts. He's happy about the _'funny'_ part, though.

“Observing me every Monday while I'm working isn't considered interacting?” Minseok asks, and gives Jongdae a smug half smile when he can't think of any way to deny it. “See you tomorrow.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thursday is like a ray of hope. The weekend is just around the corner. Everyone starts making plans for Friday night. The dull routine of work days gives place to just the perfect amount of excitement to get you moving.

Jongdae's current weekend plans involve watching old movies in his pajamas, batch cooking for the next week and not talking to any other sentient being until Monday morning. And he's _thrilled_ about it, honestly. But it's still Thursday, and he still has two more work shifts until then.

Usually, he either hates interacting with complete strangers for _hours_ or, if he's in a good mood, he doesn't mind it at all.

Today, he doesn't mind. He's even a little bit thankful for that part of his job. Anytime soon, the tentacled window cleaner– no, _Minseok_ , will show up to get his package.

 

 

Knowing some of the hardest official languages of the Union means that Jongdae won't get fired easily. As much as his supervisor loves giving him long talks about how inappropriate rolling his eyes at customers is, or reprimand him for taking his sweet, sweet time looking for parcels in the storage section, there is literally no other public worker on the planet that can "speak" the language from Mfsei. And "speak" is a generous word for what he's doing right now.

It never stops amazing Jongdae how much his hand remembers every stroke, how much his eyes remember the exact shades and hues he needs to apply to his brush. And it never stops to amaze him how _boring_ his job gets every year around the Msfei's New Year celebrations. An endless line of first generation immigrants receiving gifts from basically their whole home planet, and no one else to assist them apart from Jongdae. No one else in the whole planet, probably in the whole system, that can read the colored lines these tiny beings with pastel-pink scales draw in the _fucking air_ with the latest models of digital brushes at an ungodly speed. And definitely no one else that can answer back at a decent speed, with the latest models of white paper sketchbooks and watercolors for kids age 3 to 10, and still be understood.

It's inevitable to get increasingly bitter throughout his work day. His arm is sore, his back aches, there's paint under his nails. Knowing that this will continue for at least two more weeks doesn't help either.

And it's inevitable to get even more bitter when it's 5 minutes to close and Minseok, the only thing he was looking forward to the whole day, never appears.

 

 

The last of his painting-in-the-air customers leaves. There's no one else in line. Finally, his shift is almost done.

Jongdae starts cleaning his brushes and putting the watercolors and the sketchbook away in their corresponding drawer. Tidying his desk for the next day. Making time so he doesn't look like he's slacking (which _he isn't_ , by the way). All while looking sideways at the huge clock on the wall, counting the minutes left.

It's funny that exactly when the clock strikes 14:00 and Jongdae isn't expecting it anymore, Minseok appears running through the door. Or whatever octopi call it when they move so fast with all their tentacly limbs at the same time to cover ground quickly.

Minseok smashes both of his hands on the counter and gasps for air, trying his best to get his breath back. “Please tell me I'm not too late.”

There are beads of sweat visibly trailing down his beautiful, beautiful face and even wetting his shirt. Jongdae really wants to tell him that he's not, that there's still enough time. And maybe help him wipe the sweat off his neck. But the computer turns off automatically, as it always does when the work shift is over. To avoid illegal activities and bribery, they say.

“I'm sorry,” Jongdae grimaces. But _is he?_ He's getting a free extra chance to see his favorite half-person up close on some other day.

Minseok lets his human sectio– _his upper body_ plop down on the counter, groaning out of frustration. “But I ran so fast!”

Oh, so they just use the word 'run' like everybody else then.

“I wish I could help you but, you know, Union stuff. It's not like I can do anything,” Jongdae shrugs. “If I try to help you after my shift is over I'll get arrested before leaving the building. And you too.”

“No, I understand, it's not your fault...” Minseok sighs, picking himself up from the counter. “It's just that my boss is a jerk and didn't let me leave until it was too late because we were cleaning the windows of the governor's house and– oh, sorry. You don't care about this.”

“It's okay!” Jongdae says before thinking, and notices that it was a bit louder than it should have. “It's okay,” he repeats, calmer, and points to the little machine at the end of the counter. “Look, I just have to clock out over there, do you want to grab something to eat? You can vent about your boss all you want, and I could use the company.”

Jongdae feels suddenly self conscious. Did he just ask the cute window cleaner on a date? Out of nowhere? Minseok doesn't even know his name, for fucks sake. He probably doesn't care, either. Now Jongdae knows he's going to get rejected, and he didn't even think of this possibility before asking. He didn't think anything _at all_ before asking.

“Oh, thank you for the offer but...” Minseok starts, and Jongdae silently braces himself because, okay, he's getting rejected, but he _needs_ to keep a straight face and not lose the last remains of his dignity. He's definitely an idiot. Why would someone that just met him want to go eat with him he's _fucking insane_ for even asking– “I'd love to, but I have to get back to work, like, right now, or else my boss will get even more mad at me.”

Oh. “Oh.”

“But I have to come back tomorrow. You know, since I didn't get my package today. So I'd love to... if the offer is still up by then.” Minseok smiles, and it fucking _radiates_ through the entire building. Who needs two suns when you can have this.

Jongdae knows that he's blushing. He can feel his face burning and his cheeks hurting from the tension of trying to school his expression into something that looks more like a shy smile and less like a desperate grin. His heart is beating so hard that he's kind of worried that it'll break a rib from the inside. Oh god, is that even possible? The universe is vast and old, it probably happened once or twice before. _Fuck, he's going to die_ –

“Uh... Are you okay?”

“Good! Yes!” Jongdae squeaks, and covers his mouth as if he could block his outburst retroactively.

“Yes you're okay or yes to lunch tomorrow?”

“Yes, and yes. Yes to both.” Also yes to die. Jongdae really wants to die right now. Minseok just laughs. Jongdae wants to die a little bit less.

“Great then. See you tomorrow!”

Minseok just leaves, "running". (Seriously, tentacled people need to find a better word to describe what they do when they're tentacling around like that.) Jongdae just stands there, reconsidering his life choices. He's been literally trained _for years_ in social skills. What the hell just happened. Is he having an ictus? There is absolutely no other explanation for embarrassing himself like this. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Friday. Everybody loves Fridays. The weekend is finally here, so close you can already feel it.

 

 

Msfei's natives don't like Fridays, though. Some kind of religious or cultural thing. Jongdae never payed too much attention in his Interstellar Multiculturalism class. The important thing here is that Fridays are drawing-free days and his arm gets to rest. And the fact that, this particular Friday, he has a date. Minor stuff. Nothing to be excited about. Or dress up, even though his work's dress code is pretty strict. But once again, he won't get fired for bending a small rule just a little bit by wearing those tight fitted shiny blue pants that make his thighs look _amazing_.

Wait, do octopus people even _care_ about how legs look? Or maybe they find them disgusting? Oh shit, too late. He should have thought about that before leaving home earlier in the morning.

 

 

Despite everything, Fridays are usually busy days. If anything is common to all species, all systems and all cultures, it's the tendency to postpone boring tasks, like going to Customs, as much as possible. Jongdae has so many different customers over the day that, at some point, he finds himself trying to match eye twitches to guttural consonants. And the being in front of him judges him _hard_. Jongdae only laments the fact that he never learned K'lödc-ktian curse words in the academy to tell him to _fuck off_. He should try speaking four completely different languages in the span of a few hours.

 

 

There he is. Minseok arrives 15 minutes to closing time, “running” again, and damn if he doesn't look good in that tank top with his shoulders out there in display. Jongdae is pretty sure this level of hot is not allowed in public buildings. He'll have to check his guidelines book some time soon.

“Hello?” Minseok brings him back from his daydreaming waving a hand in front of his face. “I'm on time today, right?”

“Yes!” Wow, well done there. He needed even less time than yesterday to humiliate himself. “Give me your ID, Minseok.”

But Minseok's lips twitch upwards upon being addressed by his name, and suddenly Jongdae doesn't care that much about being caught staring, or about the pathetically obvious smile on his own face.

The package is in the building this time, the computer says. “Give me a second.”

 

 

Finding the package is easy enough. The storage section is so organized that even the packs of unused tags are properly tagged with a letter and a number and placed in their specific designation. There is absolutely no way to lose a solid, tangible thing inside the Customs building, no matter how huge the place is.

Minseok's package is a tiny box, slightly bigger than a hand. It's really heavy, though, and Jongdae struggles to carry it in his arms without the help of a cart. But his dignity suffered enough for the week, and he doesn't need to look _weak_ like a toddler on top of that.

 

 

The whole walk back to the counter proves exhausting. He can't help but wonder what's inside the box. He won't ask, though, because that's pretty _rude_. And it's also against work policies. That’s probably important too.

Jongdae scans the label on the box and confirms on the computer that the system checked it out. “Okay, that's it! You can take it.”

“Thanks,” Minseok smiles and takes the box _with a single hand_ as if it's nothing. He opens his mouth, probably to say something else, but the being behind him grumbles behind their breath and pats Minseok in the shoulder with a red laced stick. Last minute customers, always so pleasant.

Minseok probably doesn't understand what the ribbon twirls mean exactly, but he certainly gets the general idea behind the _“get the fuck off already or I'll have to come back on Monday”_ that the Ethrirean beautifully swings in the air, because he just raises his eyebrows at Jongdae and moves away from the counter.

There are few things that make Jongdae feel as self conscious as the way his coworkers quiet down and look sideways at him every time he pushes his chair away from his desk and reaches for his blue ribbon. A dancing language means that you have to use your whole body to communicate even the simplest message. Quick wrist flicks make the ribbon circle in the air and define the basic words he's trying to say, but it's the slow, open leg movements that support the posture what actually creates proper _sentences_. Jongdae likes to think that he's mastered the language long ago, but knowing that today Minseok is looking at him too doesn't make the task easier in the slightest.

 

 

Dance moves finished, package delivered, computer turning off automatically. Jongdae looks around, but doesn't see Minseok where he was standing before. _Oh god._ What if he changed his mind after that pathetic display of twitchy limbs moving around. Tentacles are so swift, he probably thought he was too clumsy for him with all those bones and joints and stuff. Well, it isn't like they were going to have a proper date anyway; he doesn't even have Minseok's number. _Damn_ , he should have asked.

But as he reaches the end of the counter, he hears those characteristic plops of suckers against the floor tiles and sees Minseok approaching him with a bright smile. He didn't leave after all.

“Wow, that was beautiful.”

Jongdae laughs nervously under his breath, trying to make the clocking machine read his access card. “I think that the word you're looking for is _'pathetic'_.”

“No, I'm pretty sure that what I just saw was amazing,” Minseok says, and Jongdae finally manages to get a beep and a green light out of the machine and step out from behind the counter. Minseok looks down. “And you. You look amazing too. Sorry, did I just say that out loud?”

Oops. _The tight pants_. Good choice, apparently. Jongdae laughs, and it's the first time he actually _laughs_ in the whole week. Because he isn't the only one being a little bit pathetic and socially awkward now.

Minseok laughs too, softly. “Anyway, ready for our date?”

And Jongdae's heart clenches just that much, because it isn't just about himself anymore. It _is_ an actual date, and Minseok is as interested as him in it. Maybe even interested in Jongdae too, who knows. And Jongdae can't help but feel a bit nervous, but he also smiles and relaxes this time, because something tells him that everything's going to be great.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed it!  
> You can also come yell at me on twitter [@felentae](https://twitter.com/felentae) or on [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/felentae) if you're shy :')


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